


Orchidaceae Oculis Cogitat Atramento

by WaldosAkimbo



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Flower Shop & Tattoo Parlor, Fluff, M/M, Rating May Change, Tags May Change, abuse of latin terms, apparently the Meat entity is very funny to me because I keep referencing it, canon compliant fear of spiders, canon compliant scars
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-20
Updated: 2021-01-04
Packaged: 2021-03-04 18:42:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,572
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25411057
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WaldosAkimbo/pseuds/WaldosAkimbo
Summary: Jonathan Sims, the Florist, works at Gertrude's Garden with one Tim Stoker, who is going out to get a touch up on his tattoo from Lonely Ink, where they meet one Martin Blackwood, tattooist.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist
Comments: 20
Kudos: 113





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I am just playing around in TMA fic for the first time, having some fun with a tattoo parlor/florist au for funsies, because they are some of my favorite aus. 
> 
> No attempt will be made at a schedule, I'm bad at them. But, hey, at least we'll have fun.

The air is sweet and tinged with a slight musk from the new fertilizer they’ve had shipped in, along with the latest bloom. He shifts in his seat, a sweat prickling on the back of his neck, and clears his throat.

“Cultivation notes for phalaenopsis rensilium, also known as the Red Slipper Orchid.”

He shifts again, shoulders hunched in an attempt to guard the space.

“The Red Slipper Orchid is a variant of phalaenopsis stuartiana or moth orchid, with a more distinct red hue through the petals than its predecessor. One might note that the stems are also thinner, near brittle, but the leaves are woodier and unlike the imbricating leaf base of the phalaenopsis stuartiana, the Red Slipper Orchid takes on a more haphazard structure. One must note the accentuated dangling labellum, which droop like a pair of laced up ballerina slippers and give itself added weight to its name. Heights of the Red Slipper Orchid—”

“Are you in here?”

Tim doesn’t even deign to ask for him by name, simply poking his head into the small space at the back of Gertrude’s shop. He’s added a rogue streak of blue to his bangs this month. It should be said, it’s very striking and suits him well, but it is also unprofessional and, as a rule, Jon hates it. Or doesn’t trust it as the fun little accent it should be. Of course, how little he trusts everything else, that’s simply a flaw on his part and not a proper assessment of Timothy Stoker, Tim to your friends.

“Aaaand with the tape recorder. Again.”

“I’m just taking some notes—”

“—like a creep—”

“—doesn’t _hurt_ anyone.” Jon clears his throat. He’s been doing that a lot lately. Perhaps he’s coming down with something. “Sorry. Right. What was it you needed?”

“Your favourite customer’s back.”

“Fav – which one?” The way Tim says it, he must be sure who he’s dealing with, though the curl of dread somewhere in his ribs gives him a clue. He hears the name even before Tim thinks to say it, but it’s probably more appropriate to let the man speak without giving away too much of his own intuition.

“Big guy.” Yep. “Handsome face.” _Yep_. “With a voice that’s like chewing toads through mud?”

“Jared—”

“Jared Hopworth!”

“ _Christ_.”

“Maybe you two can share your creepy little notes with each other.”

“Yes, thank you, Timothy.”

He looks like he might have an answer to that, another remark, but Tim just taps his knuckles against the door and dips his head.

“Love notes,” he reiterates like he can’t help himself and then hurries back out as Jon collects himself. He grimaces at that.

They are _not_ love notes. As little as he can interact with Jared Hopworth, it’s simply intriguing how often he stops by and he has a curiously patient mind for the more complicated details of growing plants. There’s no hint that he wants to get into the business himself. Jon thinks he works for a gym? Or…a butcher? It’s hard to tell.

Best get it over with.

To say Jared Hopworth cuts an impressive shadow is to say leaves are green and the sun is hot. It’s true, but _god_ how true it is. The press of his musculature against a thin gray jumper, which is a strange choice in this heatwave, threaten seams and stitch and propriety. Jon is not at all attracted to this behemoth, who looks like he has enough bulk to him that one has to wonder if he’s storing an extra ribcage in there or three, so much that he is impressed. And lightly intimidated. And equally convinced it’s a gym and not a butcher.

Red stains on the band of socks around his ankles, though….

Right. Stop with the once over. On with the job.

“Hello,” Jon says, eyes snapping up to meet Jared once more. “You’re – early?”

“I’m not,” Jared supplies calmly. He does have a very even tone about him. It could be lulling, if it weren’t so tremendously deep and terrifying, the way it croaks and bends and snaps through his vocal cords, like it’s competing with the flesh to get out to the surface. Or barreling around in the giant cavity of his body. “Somfin’s wrong with my petunias.”

“Petunias?” Jon repeats. He taps his chin and remembers he forgot to shave this morning. No sleep last night left him a bit fuzzy, in more ways than one, and he wrinkles his nose in distaste and shoves his hands beneath his elbows, pinning them in place. “We set you off with some rose vein velvet, did we not?”

“Colours wrong.”

“Beg your pardon?”

“It’s. Wrong.” Jared parses his words out to ensure their meaning and to ensure the not-so-subtle threat buried right along with them. “Bleeding out of ‘em. S’posed to be—”

“Pink.”

Jon clears his throat.

“I’ll check our catalogue. Be with you a moment.”

The joy of Gertrude’s Garden is that it serves as a floral shop, right down to the bouquets and corsages and wreaths and all that – under Tim’s Supervision, though he is technically not at all a manager, he just has more patience for that side of the business – as well as the nursery for the garden proper that Jon maintains. It was not the line of work Jon assumed for himself. He has no degree in horticulture, and, prior to this arrangement, he was going to university and in a long-term relationship with someone who he cared for but ultimately hurt in a way that was still foreign to him to grasp. He did miss the Admiral….

Why Gertrude’s Garden? Why Gertrude Robinson at all? The woman was terrifying in her own right, firm, stout, a complete nightmare for any organization. It was a steady job that focused his research skills beyond what he had been studying – literature, as far as anyone could hazard a guess, which all seems so distant to him now.

And, despite everything, what really sold him on it and what eventually lead to him taking position as the new manager, was Gertrude’s staunch stance on spiders. Of that, they had an agreement, and he carried over said fumigation practices and the likes into his role when Gertrude passed away.

And still dealing with all that filing…mess. At least they would be spider free too.

Right. Rose vein velvet petunias for one Jared Hopworth. Just had to find the receipt and some notes on them and figure out what went wrong. The notes on the cultivation of a decent bloom for petunia solanaceae was right where it ought to be. The statement of sale? Not.

“Tim?”

Jon clears his throat.

“Timothy!”

“Yeah, boss?”

The way he asks it, it feels like an insult than a question, but Tim pops his head out from where he’s been hiding amongst his roses, likely filling an order for that wedding that was on the logs. Except he looks like he’s fetched his jacket. Again, weird for the time of year. Was nobody else hot? Didn’t matter.

Instead of asking if Tim knew anything about Jared Hopworth’s statement of sale, Jon crinkles his eyebrows together and asks, “Where are you off to?”

At least Tim has the gall to look properly confused, even when he touches down the front of his chest and pats his pockets.

“Me?” He shrugs. “Nowhere.” But a level eye from Jon squeezes out the truth soon enough. “I have an appointment.”

“An appointment?”

Benign enough. A check-up here and there is not an issue, but Jon can tell, with that funny little way of his, that Tim is not off to see his physician or the dentist. So, Jon continues to stare Tim down in a way that is unnerving and annoying in equal measure. It has not earned Jon many friends.

“It’s over at Lonely Ink,” Tim blurts out, frustrated he’s given up so soon. He wilts. Not good for someone in the floral business to go about wilting. “They said someone cancelled and they could squeeze me in.”

“During work hours?” Jon has no clue what Lonely Ink is, only that Tim is going to be skipping out for the rest of his shift. Could he blame him?

Yes! He has that order for the wedding to finish up! Jon even opens his mouth to point this out when Tim shifts a box out of the way and shows off several bouquets.

“I already have them ready, before you say, and it will be quick!”

“With _what_?” Jon bites back and immediately regrets his tone.

“Well, you won’t like it.” Tim sounds assured and has folded his arms, putting up his own walls. His walls are more appealing to the general public. They are snarky and sometimes funny. Jon is nails and teeth.

“Try me,” Jon says through said teeth.

It earns him a huff and suddenly Tim is rolling up his sleeves, shoving them upwards and stabbing his arm forward. It’s a naked forearm, plain and simple. Well, less plain. There’s some tattoo there, above his wrist enough that, even with a less constrained cuffed shirt, he can hide it most days. Jon tries to recall if he’s seen it before. Tim, like Jon, has an array of questionable scars, though by way of Tim’s countenance, sometimes people forget to see them. The scars come from an unfortunate accident, each and every one—staunch opinions on spiders can sometimes translate to worms as well, but it’s harder to be mad at most worms in the floral business. Still, even someone with breathless self-confidence gets shaken and Tim, who is a standard set of handsome, covers what he wants when he wants. 

“Alright,” Jon says, waiting for the next bit.

“It’s not a full appointment,” he clarifies and touches the center of the tattoo, pressing his finger in to dimple the skin. Distracted. “I was just gonna see if they could do a touch up.”

It looks like a name? Nestled in a flower?

Jon quite likes the flower, but he won’t say that. Nor will he say that it’s a bit off, though reminiscent of lilium auratum – the Golden-rayed lily. Perhaps that is giving it too much credit as the ink is quite faded. Yet even in its right, in its plainest form, it is quite pretty. Worn. Almost gray. But still.

“Who’s it for?” Jon asks before he can seem to recognize that this might be for a lover or memoriam for someone who has passed or any other personal reason that would justify Tim’s rancor.

“ _Me_.”

“Right.” Jon looks away and that itch to know only builds, but it’s manageable.

Tim seems to muster up some shred of pity for him in the moment. A poor attempt to connect with his bastard of a boss. He rolls his sleeve back down and shrugs, also looking away, also itching for reason.

“You could come with?”

“What?”

“Yeah. Come with me to the appointment. Check it out.” Tim’s grin spreads back into place, feeling more himself. Cocksure and funny. He holds onto that like it’s the only thing fueling him. “Get you outta your convo with meat head out there.”

“He’s not—”

Jon’s mouth remains open a moment as he considers his options and considers Jared Hopworth and the missing statement of sale. And a strange argument about the colour pink, no doubt. And an even stranger occurrence where Tim has invited him out. He would generally not take up this opportunity, as they are still open during work hours. But it is so rare, and he is so horribly bereft of friends, honest friends, that it seems….

“Alright.”

“Wait, _seriously_?”

“Well. You invited—”

“I didn’t think you’d actually take me up on it!” Tim laughs. It’s pleasant. It is all these pleasant things that make one obnoxious man tolerable.

God, Jon sounds like has a crush.

No. It’s just studying what’s there and accepting all the variables lead to—

“What did you expect me to do?”

“Be stuck talking to Hopworth and I’d sneak out the back before you realized I’d left,” Tim admits without a shred guilt. It’s honourable. Still sours the mood a bit. “It’s true! You know you’d be going back to your little catalogue notes.”

“I _know_.” Jon sighs, briefly touching his brow, his own voice creaking into annoyance. “J-Just…forget I—”

“Look.” The two speak over each other a moment more and Jon straightens his spine, looking away in the same breath. Tim does too, but he comes back to focus faster. “I’ll go get Jared out. And I’ll meat you outside.”

“Right.”

He waits a beat.

“ _Meat_? Or….”

Tim just grins and shoots up from his station, ruffling through some pages, and shoos Jon to his little office to get what he needs before they head out. To a _tattoo_ parlor. Yes, alright, so this shouldn’t be just awful. He’s made a mistake right off the bat agreeing to this and it’s astounding that he’s suddenly got his wallet and keys and is standing out under the awning of the neighbors shop, so as to avoid Mr. Hopworth when he finally leaves, no doubt persuaded with a great deal of effort by Tim. What’s Tim hoping for? Pity? Praise? Exaltation? That Jon might chip in for his tattoo because he –

Obviously, he’s not going to do that.

Ten minutes later, Jon’s worried he’s signed himself off for an impromptu smoke break without cigarettes and a lighter and that he’s going to get a sunburn on the tip of his nose if he stays out here any longer. He thinks Tim’s probably having a laugh at him and is about to turn back towards the shop when Streak of Blue is suddenly in his face.

“Ready to go?”

“Was it very difficult?”

“He has weird ideas on the colour pink,” Tim says, still trying to figure it out himself, and claps his hands together. He hasn’t touched Jon, but Jon flinches like he has and rounds his shoulders as they walk towards the bus stop, his insides squirming with the sudden thought that this was a certifiably _bad idea_.

“D’you have any ink?”

“Not really,” Jon says, and Tim shrugs, makes a noncommittal noise. Yes. _Bad idea._


	2. Chapter 2

“I’m _only_ saying. They would have far better luck with customers if it weren’t so—”

“It’s the _appeal_ , Jon!” They haven’t been able to go five minutes without having an argument about one thing or another. One might call it the application of their familiarity, but Jon’s almost certain Tim wishes he had abandoned his boss three stops ago.

“To be murdered?” Jon laughs, and it’s as strange to hear it as it is to see it. He’s not accustomed to laughing. There might be a therapist somewhere who would say something about that. “Or to be lost from public records? Or—”

“I _like_ the artist. They have a cool style.”

“And what’s that?” He doesn’t mean to pry. No, that’s a lie, he constantly means to pry, he just wishes it wasn’t so ingratiated in his nature to do so. “Pen and ink prison tattoos? You know, I saw a documentary once—”

“I’m sure you did.”

“—and _apparently_ a fishhook means…well, I think it meant you could…er…eat them.”

“Fucking _what_.”

“It was very late at night,” Jon confesses, touching his brow again and then pinning his hands back under his own elbows.

He is trying to touch his face less. Georgie once commented he had a surprisingly nice complexion and now it was ruined. He is ruined on many things, but that’s no excuse to make it _worse_. That, and it is unpleasant to touch. Bristly. Just reminds him he hadn’t shaved that morning, _damn_ him.

“I can’t say how accurate or….” This was getting them nowhere. Jon readjusts himself and tries again. “What style do _you_ prefer, Timothy?”

He can sense that every time he uses the name, it is another nail in the proverbial coffin that their budding friendship was buried in. To be sure, Jon felt that about any casual acquaintance. Such is his gift for gab, or lack thereof.

“I don’t know.” He does. “I mean, who isn’t impressed with a really good realism piece. Or, you know, that sort’ve traditional stuff, but it’s, like—”

“Neo traditional,” Jon supplies, half-swallowing his words.

“What?”

“No, it’s just…neo traditional, I think. From the documentary. I—”

Tim decides he’s done with all this and walks ahead and, as he is loathed to admit it, Tim has some 10 centimeters or so and it’s enough that with those long legs, he gains speed. Jon doesn’t quite miss the hint so much as he stubbornly follows so he doesn’t get lost in this abysmal little shithole neighborhood.

That’s harsh. It’s not untrue, it’s just…rude.

The door to Lonely Ink is as unassuming as the one next to it, which might be for a...vet? Clinic? Shoe…repair? It’s hard to tell, even with the sign just above the door. The light keeps changing the words and Jon finds himself squinting, shading his gaze, only to be pulled in by Tim. He can’t be certain they have the right address. Lonely Ink has no sign above the door. It barely had a number outside and the interior walkway is dark, leading them up a flight of cramped stairs. It’s cool inside, that’s for certain. No guardrail either, by the looks of things. Code violations left and right, like they’re hoping nobody will bother with them.

“Tim?” Jon is doing better staying in his shadow as they climb the stairs, something gnawing at his guts the whole way. “Are you sure this is the right—”

“ _Yes_ , Jon.”

Another door at the top, with a sticky handle that needs a little jiggle to get it open, before they are both dumped into a surprisingly open room. The floor creaks underfoot, a dull gray like the washboard planks of an old ship. Smells just about like it too. Strangely salty and cool. Jon is now grateful for his own jacket, despite the heat outside.

Though the entryway was dingy, dark, and uninviting, the space up here for the actual studio itself is spread out. Like everyone is paranoid about breathing each other’s space, let alone have stimulating conversation with one another. Someone is already spread on a bench nearby, their face pillowed in the crook of their elbow, wild curly hair spilling over their back in yellow ringlets. It seems they are busy getting some maze of some sort on their bicep, curling in and out in violent colors, and happily discussing unintelligible nonsense with the artist.

“Be with you a moment!”

The disembodied voice drifts from the back, and while it is reasonable that they can see all the way across the room from door to wall, it all seems so hazy. Insurmountable to tread through. That, or the twin counter cabinets up front keep Jon and Tim corralled at the entryway and the idea of vaulting over uninvited would shatter some taboo on the whole thing. So, Jon perceives it as an impossibility.

This, of course, detracts from the disembodied voice, which it should be said sounds very soft and very kind. Jon presses his eyebrows together in thought, considering the cabinets same as he considers the voice. Tim, for his part, is considering a catalogue instead. He could care very little about voices and Jon decides he should take cues from Tim, seeing as he’s been here before and Jon’s barely been anywhere.

“See, this sort’ve stuff,” Tim says, holding a page taught at the edges. It’s of someone’s back, their skin stained black with a branching Lichtenburg figure crawling up the spine and igniting some slippery-looking sea creature coiling around the hips. There were bold splashes of red amongst the black, highlighting a sphere which could potentially be a bloody moon. “This stuff is—”

“Painstaking?”

“Incredible.”

“Well, I suppose that’s one word for it.”

“You don’t like it?” Tim holds the flap of laminated paper tighter. “Really? Take a look, seriously. Tell me you can’t appreciate this.”

“I mean, I’m certain the skill involved is commendable,” Jon says, taking it at face value, but the more he stares, all he can think about is the agony of lying there for hours and hours just to get the glow of the stars right, or the jagged branches of the Lichtenburg figure.

Tim shakes his head and continues perusing. Another opinion they cannot meet fully at the center.

“Right, sorry.” There’s the gentle clink of ceramic on glass as a man settles himself behind the counter. He’s large, with a round face shadowed by scruff and a pair of plain glasses. His orange jumper again seems just not right for the season, but it matches so perfectly with Jon’s orange button-down, he manages to cross his arms self-consciously and blush at the resemblance. The man has no name tag, though Jon looks for one, and trails his eyes across the sprinkling of hair on the man’s forearms, at least until the edge of his jumper, which covers the briefest inkling of, well, ink. The sight of tattoos draws Jon in further, begging to push his sleeve back and see what they are in their entirety, to _know_.

When the man speaks, just before, he takes a big breath, like he’s about to proclaim something important, and only this soft voice trickles out. “What can I help you with today, gentlemen?”

And he has tea out.

In a tattoo parlour.

“Yeah, you’re Martin, right?”

“One in the same.” He smiles. It pinches his eyes shut, or near about, even if he doesn’t show his teeth when he does so. Makes his ears twitch and his glasses slide down the slope of his nose. “Were you by chance the one who called—”

“Yeah! You do those single-needle pieces?”

“Sometimes.” Martin chuckles, focused entirely on Tim. No surprise, Tim is both engaging and attractive. Most people focus entirely on Tim. “I mean, we all can, yeah. You wanted a touch up, right?”

“I saw some of your font stuff, too,” Tim explains and unrolls his sleeve to show off the muddled tattoo.

“May I?” Martin’s hands look soft as they lay on Tim’s forearm and Jon pinches his hands a little harder under his elbows, so he doesn’t reach out to see how warm Martin is. How cold his own forearms are in comparison. “And how old did you say this was?”

“You’ll laugh at me for it, but it’s just under three years.”

“No kidding?” Martin, instead of laughing as Tim predicts because Tim is shite at predicting people like Jon is, simply coos over the piece and tuts. “Where’d you get it then, some knob in a garage?”

Tim just snorts and pulls his arm back, touching the lines himself. “Near as.”

“Well, I’m sorry to say, won’t be as cheap as your buddy over a few beers, but we’ll get it all fixed up. You write the date down you have here and let me snap a photo and we could do it today?” Martin’s reaching under the desk to grab something, still smiling at Tim, when he makes a little jerky gesture to the left. “Your friend want anything either?”

“What?” Jon doesn’t mean to splutter, and he definitely doesn’t mean to draw himself back like the counter has burned him and him alone, but he does both those things. “I – I would n – I mean, I haven’t even – I’m not–”

“That’s a ‘no,’ case you’re curious,” Tim says for him and is fetching his wallet to get something. “He’s here for moral support.”

“You were going to skip out on your shift.” Jon’s hackles are raised, or as near as he could physically do as such, and he has that strange horrible feeling in his face again. “And we- I mean _you_ – he invited me!”

“Yeah.” Tim’s scrawling the date out on the paper in his neatest handwriting. “ _And_ moral support. Don’t mind him, Martin.” Tim bites down on the ‘r’ too hard in the name. Jon doesn’t know why he doesn’t like that. “He’s just grumpy we took him outside for a walk.”

If Jon could snarl and get away with it….

Not even, he can feel his lips beginning to curl and a glint of teeth exposed to the refrigerated air.

And then Martin laughs, which makes his face crinkle in a peculiar way. It scrunches his nose, it creases his eyes, it makes the three moles scattered over his nose and cheeks in a nearly perfect equilateral triangle stand out.

“Well, I’m glad you’re here. Right!” Martin pulls Tim’s form and what apparently is his ID closer, squinting down at the page before he gives a nod. “You two wanna head back with me?”

Jon does not. But to be abandoned out here, alone, seems far less enjoyable and he would like to avoid being gawked at by the pair having quite a little laugh with themselves at the other station. They seem similar in a way. Related without blood relations. Just kindred spirits, must be. The one with the long ringlets of hay-coloured hair glances up and gives Jon an unnervingly kind smile and a wave and, without any reason to think it would be true, Jon worries about those teeth going into his neck.

Martin’s station is not necessarily tidy, but it is clean, and he has an office-chair and a stool one might find at a physician’s walk-in clinic. Tim takes the office chair and Jon decides to stand, arms crossed tightly to shield himself.

“Shouldn’t be too long. You want to keep the same flower?”

“If you can,” Tim says, looking at his wrist and tracing the faded lines. “They were his favourite.”

Mm. _Were_. Jon’s curiosity blooms again and he eyes Tim without trying to be obvious about it, which means focusing with his peripheral and tensing up until he’s hunched, cartoonish plumes of smoke rolling off the top of his scalp not at all out of place should that be a thing to suddenly manifest.

After Martin makes some notes and a quick photo with his mobile, he heads to a back room. Tim sighs visibly next to Jon.

“Alright,” he says finally.

“Alright?” Jon repeats, his voice thin and skeptical.

“Just ask.”

“What?”

“Everything.” No, that’s too broad, and even Tim knows that. “What do you want to know. About the _tattoo_ , let me finish, _Christ_.”

“Oh.” Jon faces him and has his hands together so he can pick at one knuckle or another. Small nervous habit. Better than scratching more holes in his face. He generally tries to avoid digging at the pockmark scars over his hand, but sometimes he catches himself doing that, too. “What kind of flower is it, exactly? And the date? And, more importantly, who is it for? You’ve never mentioned it before, but it seems quite important and I can’t believe I didn’t see it earlier, but I suppose—”

“Jon?”

“Mm?”

Tim’s hand flexes in the air, grabbing at nothing, and then splays back out as though to push back Jon’s curiosity. Good luck.

“Right.” Tim takes another deep breath, stretching out that unbearable moment between question and answers, filling it with cottony sounds and dust. “It’s a lily.”

“Knew it!”

“I’m not answering anymore questions.”

“What?” Jon deflates almost instantly, his scalp going tingly at the top. “I’m sorry, I—”

“Just!” The hand flex again. Jon’s curious what it’s really intended for. To calm Tim down? A reflex? A threat? “It’s a lily,” he repeats. “It was my brother’s.” _Favourite_ , yes, now that makes sense. But a brother? Jon didn’t know he had – “He died.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah. Couple years back.”

“Oh,” Jon repeats so helpfully. “And then the date is…?”

“His birthday, actually. Didn’t want the date of his death etched on me forever.”

“Ah.”

Tim nods. Jon nods. The two strangers nearby don’t nod, but they’ve laughed at something and it shatters into the awkward silence bubbling up between them again.

“I…I am sorry. To hear about your brother.”

“Yeah, alright.”

“It’s a nice tribute, I think?”

Tim rolls his eyes and there’s a mean smile starting to prick at the corner of his mouth before Martin comes back with a tablet in hand and warm documents from a printer all set for Tim. The screen is dark on the tablet, until Martin sets everything down and flips it on, holding a pretty sketch out for them to inspect.

“And how do we like this?”

“Yeah, you can do that?”

“Course I can,” Martin says happily.

“Looks beautiful,” Tim answers and steps closer, his hands out. “May I?”

“Course!”

Tim holds the tablet, staring at the smooth dark lines with his brother’s birthdate in the center there. It’s very similar to the original design, but there’s a crispness to this, not only from black ink on a bright white background, but the shape of the petals, the volume of it; the little careful lines that one presumes will be done with a single needle adds a delicate beauty to it.

“Yeah, that’s going to be perfect,” Tim says, his voice thick, and he shows it to Jon, too, presumably to get his approval.

“Oh. Uh. Yes. Looks, uh, looks. Good.”

“Just good?”

“No, it’s. It’s really well drawn. Much more, er, accurate. Lilium auratum.”

“Lilium…mm?” Martin asks nearby and Jon is startled out of his reverie, quickly dashing non-said words out of the air.

“No, sorry. Uh, it’s a beautiful lily.”

“He would know,” Tim says and hands the tablet back over to Martin. “He’s nuts about flowers. Studies all their special scientific names and writes up these reports.”

“Oh? Are you a botanist or something?” Martin asks.

“Florist,” Jon answers. “Actually. Gertrude’s.”

“Oh.” It’s clear that Martin doesn’t know the place, but he’s being polite about it. “So, then you do know your flowers. Well. I’m glad I have professional approval on it. Thank you.”

He genuinely sounds like he means it and Jon’s not sure why that curls so tight in his windpipe. He’s afraid to say anything for fear his voice will crack into a thousand pieces and he’ll end up spewing out nonsense. He’d rather jump out the window, and at this moment he can’t even see one, so surely, he’ll have to run very hard through the brick wall and make one himself. He looks away instead and is saved further embarrassment when Martin sets Tim up at the table and continues a conversation that is either about tattoos in general, birthdays, flowers, or the weather. It could be all of that or none, as Jon is having a hard time focusing on the conversation and eventually finds himself sitting, his arms crossed tightly over his chest, and watching Tim lay out while Martin takes a machine to his skin and stabs it. Repeatedly.

Tattoos are very peculiar. Ink stains under the skin for any number of reasons, such as memorials or badges or, hell, a funny idea someone had. It looks like they must hurt. Martin, with his nitrile gloves on, dabs away ink and plasma as he works at the design, his weight pressing down on Tim’s arm in a way that looks not only firm but somehow comforting. Jon imagines what it must be like to have Martins’ weight on his arm. Or to have Martin pressed in so close as to smell tea leaves and sweat and the cedar from the chest he keeps some of his clothes in at home. Or perhaps he smells like ink and chalk. Or sea salt and cold gray shorelines.

Martin must roll up his sleeve and apologies before he continues on Tim. As he does so, he reveals an arm littered with little designs. At first blush it’s a tapestry of spidery trails comprised of delicate flowers, working from wrist to elbow. There’s so many of them, and yet he doesn’t have so much ink that one couldn’t see his skin beneath it, pale and lightly freckled. The few spots he’s added color are like targets drawing his eye. Three of them, in fact, appear to be precisely that. Eye patterns that blend into the leaves. More than three. Oh, much more than three, now that Jon’s staring, possibly sitting forward, drinking in the sight. Getting lost in the maze, the dull mechanical whir of the machine and voices muffled even further until one, clean and clear, cuts through everything because its’s said his name, twice now. When he looks up, Martin’s staring at him.

“Jon?”

Jon blinks and sits back, a fist on each kneecap.

“Sorry.”

Martin smiles. Cheeks bubble. Eyes pinch. Jon feels a tickle in his throat, and he fights the urge to cough. “Just wanted to know what you think?”

“About…?” But, no, it’s quite obvious as Tim’s sitting up and holding the bottom of his wrist like he’s been gravely injured and is presenting the wound for inspection. It’s not a wound. It’s a renewed testament to his brother’s memory, crisp as it was on the tablet screen earlier, if a bit red and angry from being attacked by a needle.

“Beautiful,” Jon says quietly.

“Oh, do go on, boss,” Tim teases and Jon looks up, his face red over the bridge of his nose. He shoves at his glasses out of habit and hunches a bit in the process.

“Yeah?” Martin stretches and nods at his work. “Well, I appreciate that, coming from a floral expert and all.”

That same smile. That same irritating smile that makes Jon’s throat scratchy and Jon stands up and heads immediately for the door. He isn’t sure if he missed any of his belongings, but then remembers outside is so hot and he only had the keys to the shop and his wallet with him. He doesn’t hear them calling his name or anything, but that could be from the ringing blood in his ears as he throws himself down the stairs, almost literally. Tim will follow. They’ll head to the bus stop. They’ll go back to work and depart from there, even as much as Jon would like to go home and bury his head under a pillow for the rest of the day. Because a man in a tattoo parlour smiled at him.

Ridiculous.

Tim’s going to make fun of him…. Maybe he should get a cab…. He’s fumbling with his pockets and remembers he has neither his lighter nor any cigarettes to preoccupy himself and nearly shouts at the sky, except that would look insane and he wouldn’t want the sky to pay attention to him right now anyways. Or anyone else for that matter.

When the door opens beside him, thankfully it’s just Tim and his streak of blue hair as he’s putting on his jacket. He rolls his eyes at the sight of Jon but says nothing. They head to the bus stop to go back to the store. To depart from there. To go home. Where Jon finally, somehow too exhausted to put his head under his pillow for the rest of the day, puts himself in the spare room’s closet instead, flips on a light, and reads over his field notes into his tape recorder to calm his nerves before he tries to go to bed, where he’ll dream of eyes tattooed on his arms, blinking to life, drowning in flowers, and warm hands trying to save him.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Do I come in here with a note about how it's been forever since I updated this? Or do I just update it? Yes.

The deliberate clink of the toothbrush against the porcelain countertop carries with it the air of agitation that has followed Jon around all morning. His gums still tingle from the bristles, which are nearly worn down now and he considers opening one of the packages beneath his sink and fetching out a new one, but it’s still too early in the calendar month. These things have dates and rules, arbitrary, easily broken, and yet as firm as steel in Jon’s routine. He licks at the roof of his mouth and avoids his reflection for as long as he can, sighing towards the basin. Hands gripping hard enough to make his forearms shake and then not. He lets go. He draws his eyes up. He regards himself.

He _regards_ himself.

He-

“Look up,” Jon says firmly to the sink.

With some effort, Jon does indeed look at himself. He’s forgone the spectacles – can someone’s eyesight improve over time? It seems odd, but not entirely impossible over the last few years – and tied up his hair shortly after his shower this morning. His eyes, bruised and dark, bore into his reflection, like he might suddenly see tunnels burrowing into his eye sockets, much deeper than his skull could ever bear. Jon touches his cheek and draws a simple pattern towards his chin, where he runs over the freshly shaved skin.

Better.

Not perfect.

Jon sighs and flips open his medicine cabinet to fetch a pair of tweezers and takes care of a few stubborn little hairs on his chin so he can rub it later in thought and not get entirely distracted by the friction. Unwound from the irritation. Smooth. Smooth sailing.

With that out of the way, he gathers his things, his jacket – but it’s still _hot_ out, isn’t it? – and his keys and his wallet. His trusty lighter. Even an old package of cigarettes, which he puts in his jacket pocket and feels a strange burn of shame and anticipation. Or, perhaps, that is the shame and anticipation of seeing Tim today.

He had acted quite impolite at the tattoo place. The dread of Tim’s upcoming dredging sits as easily in Jon’s stomach as fiberglass and wet asphalt. And there’s no other reason to fear it so other than the fact that Martin –

That Martin….

Martin.

Jon sighs and taps his fist to his forehead.

“Right, shut it,” he mutters to himself, reaches back and grips the still-damp knot of hair and tie, and pulls enough to make his skull ache. “You’re being ridiculous. You don’t get crushes on people, Jonathan. You are being childish. Stop it.” He yanks a little harder. “ _Stop_ it.”

And then he settles. He takes a deep breath, a beaten-up journal with cultivation notes tucked into his arm, close to his chest. And he leaves his flat.

-

“Morning, Boss.”

“You’re 17 minutes late,” Jon answers for his desk without looking up. Tim chuckles ruefully to the ceiling and puts a bag under his station before he goes to fetch one of the aprons off the hook near the fire door. It is exactly the same as their other routines and though Jon’s heartbeat is hammering in his throat, he continues in the same tone and manner as always. “Something funny?”

“Sure is,” Tim says and, to his credit, is following the script of their lives perfectly. He walks the same. He talks the same. It brings with it a relief so palpable, Jon feels his stomach twist.

When Tim comes closer, his hands trapped behind his back – he’s tying his apron strings into a messy little knot – he looks down at Jon’s station and zeros in on the notebooks set out. Tim is missing something and Jonathan isn’t entirely sure what. “Did Reggie call in about his order?”

“Not yet.” Jon’s staring up at him, his hands flat on the desk. “We did get a letter that Elias—” Tim groans at this and shakes his head and his dark hair stays mostly in place thanks to wax and determined fingers styling it. “—will be back in next week. No blue.”

“Next week.” Tim scoffs, rolls his shoulder, and turns away. “Right-on. Guess he’s got some more plans on the business then.”

Either Tim didn’t hear him, or he is ignoring the statement. Even though it is very clear to Jon now. Tim has removed the blue streak in his hair. In fact, it is all quite a bit darker, perhaps dying it black to get it uniform? It’s strange how Tim, who is still very striking, generally speaking, seems to have lost some of his spark after the blue has been removed. Some of his easy mirth. Jon feels a strange stab of guilt and continues to fixate on the now even-toned hair on Tim’s forehead.

“…and I guess it’s his anyways, so what do we know. Just wish he’d keep his creepy little fingers out of – okaaaaay.” Tim clears his throat and Jon snaps his eyes down to Tim’s face. “If that’s all the news we have for today?”

“News?” Jon looks down and touches his journals, blindly feeling out for an appropriate response, which he rarely has. Not right away. He fights to drudge them up as quickly as possible and manages to just fine, but they always sound so flat. Angry. He is sure he is a bore and cannot bear to be wrong, so it’s even worse, really.

Not the point.

“Late for work…Elias is coming…no orders from Reggie. Uh, no? I think that’s all.” He flattens his hands on the desk once more. “You removed the blue in your hair.”

Well, he had to be certain Tim heard him! In truth, the whole thing was going to eat away at him if it was left unacknowledged! So, he acknowledges it.

Tim looks up, catches a fringe of his hair between his fingertips, and laughs. Subsequently, it is the very same hand that is attached to a forearm that, even though currently covered, has a stretch of cling wrap to it. Dermalize? Is that the name of the brand? Either way, it is covering a tattoo and Jon’s eyes are stuck to Tim’s arm the same as they had been to his forehead prior.

“Yeah. Honestly?”

Tim shrugs. His arms go back down by his sides and it takes every ounce of strength not to have his eyes – and subsequently face – follow the movement of those arms. Jon crawls his attention back up the length of Tim’s body until they are in a polite range near his forehead. Back to the hair. Topic at hand. Yes.

“Honestly,” Jon repeats helpfully, hoping to continue the conversation. To know why Tim did what he did. Always searching.

“Just thought I could use a change,” Tim finally answers.

“Lots of changes,” Jonathan says and something slowly creeps up on him. He opens his mouth to share his hypothesis when Tim shakes out a laugh and turns away to go to his desk, deciding he is done with their conversation for now. It is his right to do so, but it is as much a slap to Jon’s face as a physical hand would be and he needs a moment to recover. He so does hate having his hypotheses dismissed.

His hypothesis for today is that Tim has dumped someone. Or perhaps been dumped? It’s hard to tell with his…penchant. For relationships. There is no fault in polygamy and Tim is respectable about his partners, as far as Jon has gleamed from their interactions. He may pass a crude joke here or there, but they are rarely at the subject’s expense. Tim pokes fun. If he were honest, Jonathan thinks Tim only pokes fun _at Jonathan_ and, if not him, then at himself.

“Timothy?” Jonathan calls after him, hating the rise in his voice, the undercurrent of desperation. Hating that he doesn’t just call him Tim or, what, maybe just “Mr. Stoker” and cut off all pretense of a friendly working environment all together. He’s not sure why he can’t let it go. Why he clings.

Is Tim his only friend?

Is Tim his friend at all?

Jonathan clears his throat again.

“Timothy?” he tries, a little louder and doesn’t flinch outwardly when Tim drops his hands, his head swinging back, sans any blue streak whatsoever, and groans.

“Yeah, boss?” he asks, clearly dismissive. Jon doesn’t. Flinch. Outwardly.

“How’s. Well, I mean. No, how’s the, um. The tattoo?” Every pause is intentional, or so he tells himself. Every stammer. Every break and stumble, it’s all just to humanize him more, attempts being made to reach across the aisle. Friendship.

Because he doesn’t. Flinch. Outwardly.

Tim stares at him for a moment. He has these charcoal eyes, though they are clean and bright and they have always looked better with a smile. He even has pleasing full eyebrows, the bastard, though he did carry around an intentional notch out of the left one that Jon knows he meticulously shaved into place for six months. The moment lingers, drags, hauls itself well into uncomfortable before Tim turns his wrist over.

“Healing nicely,” he says, pressing against the film that still covers it and a little bit of dark ink sloshes under it, like plasma under a blister. Tim chuckles at that and it seems his mood improves as he sits back at his desk. “Why? Finally getting the courage to go and get one yourself?”

“Hardly,” Jon answers automatically, a quick and easy dismissal. But his eyes are pinned to Tim’s arm and it is only a few more minutes before Tim sighs and gets up. He comes over, causing Jon to sit back as far as he can, and pull his hands away when Tim reaches over his desk and snatches up a pen. There are very serious protests when Tim takes Jon’s journal with his botanical notes and then his mobile out, thumbing the screen open. He scribbles down the digits in a clean, cramped script. And drops the pen.

“Ball’s in your court, boss,” Tim says, pushing away from Jon’s space. “Thank me later.”

Jon doesn’t thank him. Jon doesn’t say anything, his eyes tacked to the numbers, their lines neat. Even. Burning. And he covers them with a receipt as they get back to work.

It is on his lunch break, an hour after Tim comes back from his own with his hair slightly damp at the temples, his clothes rucked a little to the right, and an excuse about playing racquet ball, that Jon retrieves the number again. He has simply migrated from one desk in the shop proper where he can deal with customers and one desk in the back where he can record in relative quiet. The lamp in the closet burns with a low orange light that fizzes on the periphery of his hearing. Sometimes he feels like the dark starts to cave in on him, pressing on all sides, and his little lamp has to try harder to protect them from plunging into complete darkness. Until he remembers to simply kick open the door beside him.

He is curled over a plain sandwich and crisps. The loud crunch of each of them is sometimes unbearable, today more so. Lack of sleep, agitation with customers asking insipid questions about lilies and flower arrangements, the different textures of his face. It’s a bit overwhelming. It’s more than a bit overwhelming, but he’s so very good at lying and painting it as truth so that he only cringes a little when he chews another crisp, grinding it into something softer and more appeasing between his teeth.

With a steadying breath, Jon pulls his journal closer. He means to review his notes, so he says, but he has instantly turned the pages so he can read Tim’s script easier. He has already pulled out his phone and is punching in the numbers, one after the number, with a sturdy hand that ensures each digit is precise. He is _already_ putting the phone up to his ear, listening with gnawing horror as the line buzzes to life, rings. Rings again. A third time and he can safely put the phone down and assume it is wrong or assume someone isn’t there to answer, but just before it comes, there’s a click and a friendly voice chimes out:

“Lonely Ink! This is Martin. How can I help you—”

Jon hangs up.

He stares at the dark wall in front of him, his thumb pressing onto the now blank tile of his home screen. And he puts his head to his notebook in supplication and silent anger.

His forehead crunches over a crisp and leaves crumbs in its wake, which he has to scrub off so it doesn’t feel like it’s digging into his skull.

“You can’t….” Jon sneers and picks himself back up. He isn’t going to be afraid of a _telephone call_ of all things. He is a grown man. “Dial again. Say it was a lost connection. It’s not that difficult.”

With his chest strangely uncomfortable in a way he cannot explain, Jon pushes his phone to dial the number again.

The phone itself only rings once before it's picked up.

“Lonely Ink,” Martin says, more careful this time. “This is Martin. How can I—”

“This is Jonathan Sims of Gertrude’s Garden. We met yesterday.”

“Gertrude…oh!” There is warmth enough in that voice over through the receiver that Jon can feel it over the phone. Or that could very well just be his face heating up, which seems impossible. Improbably. “Jon! With Tim!”

“I’m not with Tim,” Jon says quickly and then seems to stall, mentally and physically. He is brought back to life with a wince and scrubs his forehead. “I’m associated with Timothy Stoker. Yes. You’re right. He works for me. With me.”

“Right,” Martin says. It sounds like he’s smiling. Jon fights to do the same. “Is…everything alright?”

“Yes! Yes, yes it’s.” Jon clears his throat and looks down at his sandwich and his crushed crumbs. “Would you like to have lunch?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“No, sorry.” Jon almost hangs up again, but he can hear his name being called and pulls his mobile back up to his ear.

“Jon? Are you still there?”

“Unfortunately,” Jon answers grimly, still kneading and pinching the skin on his forehead.

“Good. I’d love to get some lunch? I…can’t today. Busy schedule. Would tomorrow work?”

“Tomorrow?” Jon repeats and sits up straighter. He has no idea what he feels, is completely unused to this sensation and nods numbly in the dark. “Tomorrow. Yes. You…you could tell me about tattoos.”

“And you can tell me about flowers!” Martin chuckles, before his voice is cut off from the sound of someone behind him. “Er. Sorry, Jon. I have to go. You…have my number, apparently. Well, no, the shops. Would you like—”

“Yes.”

There’s another short pause, something rustling, and then Martin’s voice is softer, more intimate. He rattles off a set of digits and it’s only a moment later that Jon realizes he should write them down. They go directly beneath the ones Tim’s written earlier. Jon repeats them back, just to make sure.

“That’s it! Perfect. Well, see you tomorrow.”

“Yes, tomorrow. Thank you. Erm.”

And he hangs up again, his skin buzzy. He stays in the dark closet an extra fifteen minutes past what he should for his break and is so grateful that Tim doesn’t say anything on his return that he lets Tim go home early, thanks him, and stays late in the shop so he can prune, water, write notes, and trace the numbers again on the pages of his journal.


End file.
